Books Poetry

Core addiction

As time passes
you fade into
orange London night
I return to my skin
grateful at finding myself.
It’s the way you slip
in, get underneath my
fingernails, inhabit the
space behind my eyes
two fishes unaligned
pulling in opposite directions.
It was a novel experiance
at the start and I still
crave it like heroin, but
heroin makes me itch
then vomit up your guts
and I become benumbed
in pink vapidity. While you
underwrite the intensity
of your intensity.
Maybe Boots would sell
a detoxifying solution,
I could spread it on the sky
and know you couldn’t find me,
but it’s the fear that overrides
oroboric warmth, collective suicide
where egoless we float
until the end of time.